Dead Heat by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

an undetectable drug, I guess it wouldn’t show up. His body could be pumped full of something and we wouldn’t know.’
    We drive back across town without saying much, both of us turning over the shootings in our minds. I watch the mid-morning sun warming the waters of Guanabara Bay, the huge expanse of sea lapping against Rio’s golden shore. The sun warms the water, and the sand, and the concrete, and the lush vegetation, and finally thesoaring rock of Sugarloaf, and Christ the Redeemer as he reaches out to gather in the day.
    I think about the split second when I shot Tim Gilmore. The confusion of the scene. I think about Meyer’s lonely apartment and his mottled blue skin. I think of Witt, angry and afraid like a wounded animal. And of Zou, and the terrible sound her body made when it slumped to the floor.
    ‘No more,’ I say to myself as much as to Paz. And I mean it.
    Twenty minutes later, I’m still pulling at threads and trying to make connections between the four athletes, as Paz drives the Fiat through the grey corrugated fortress gates to the police compound. The car park is surrounded by a ten-foot-high white brick wall, and the building itself is low-slung, with windows made of iron slats.
    ‘Our little Tent of Miracles,’ I say to Paz and she looks at me blankly. ‘Come on,’ I tell her. ‘Jorge Amado. Born 1912. Brazil’s greatest writer?’
    No reaction. I roll my eyes. This is our thing. I tell her about the great writers and our country’s history. She tells me about soap operas and reality TV.
    ‘Oh yeah,’ she says suddenly. ‘ Jorge Amado. 1912 . Didn’t you go to school with him, Carvalho?’
    I swipe my badge across the security door and hear the heavy lock clunk open as Paz grins and pushes past me into the building. Inside there is a long, dreary corridor that aims for the heart of the station. It’s all walls and ceilings. No doors. No windows. No natural light. Nothing but stale air.
    ‘Find out what you can about Witt,’ I say as we walk. ‘If there’s anything in this drugs theory, then he was showing all the right signs. See if you can find a connection with Gilmore.’
    ‘Sure. Am I investigating him as a perpetrator or a victim?’
    Our feet thud on the worn carpet and the muffled sound bounces off the stark grey walls.
    ‘Not sure.’
    ‘And Zou Jaihui?’
    That’s an even tougher call.
    ‘Perp for now. But let’s see what comes out in the wash. I can’t help thinking they’re all in something together.’
    We emerge into the main processing area. I call it ‘the bear pit’. In the centre are a handful of desks covered by a mountain of files. The files are surrounded by coffee cups and evidence bags, and every phone is ringing off the hook. Cases are being discussed, people are shouting. Criminals are being processed. We pause in the doorway, preparing, as if we’re about to jump from the back of a plane.
    ‘Find a connection, Paz.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘And the blonde girl. Try to find out who she is.’
    Paz turns to look at me.
    ‘You think she knows something?’
    I take a long breath and think about it, trying to block out the bedlam.
    ‘Maybe.’
    Paz smiles her light-bulb smile.
    ‘What are you going to do, exactly?’
    I look across the room through the crowd and lock eyes with the Captain, who looks like he’s spoiling for a fight.
    ‘Me? I’m going to buy us some time.’

CHAPTER 14
    IT IS NOT an easy thing to accept the authority of a younger man. However, the older I’ve become, the more I’ve had to get used to it. Silva is not a bad captain. But he is young. And right now he’s nervous.
    ‘You know this department is being watched?’ he says.
    He’s trying to stay level, and I guess I appreciate the effort.
    ‘Let me ask you a question,’ I say. ‘Would you rather I’d let Gilmore smash his javelin through the President?’
    ‘That doesn’t change the fact, Carvalho. You shot an athlete.’
    ‘Gilmore killed himself, when he